In Some Sacred Place
by fauxpology
Summary: It's not that we're scared. It's just that it's delicate. Shawn x Hunter


**Title:** In Some Sacred Place  
**Rating:** R for sexual situations  
**Summary:** It's not that we're scared. It's just that it's delicate.  
**Pairing/s:** Shawn/Hunter  
**Word count:** 593  
**Notes:** An exercise in writing porn. Well, sort of. My tenses seem to have gotten away from me. Inspired by Damien Rice's song "Delicate".  
**Disclaimer:** Any similarity between the fictional version of the person portrayed here and the actual persons is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person). 

Any mention of 'World Wrestling Entertainment', any associated entities, or any copyrighted material pertaining therein is reasonably protected by the Fair Use Rule of the United States Copyright Act of 1976 and is not intended to infringe upon any copyrighted material.

---

In all of the years they've been together, they've only had one rule:

No marks.

No bites. No bruises. Theirs is a business of exposure, of nakedness, and neither the audience of millions nor the guys at the production truck tend to appreciate the sight of a hickey or two underneath a nipple.

He'd accepted it a long time ago, and most nights, he doesn't even care. Most nights they ride the elevator up to their room in silence, the only points of contact between them a steadying hand when one stumbles or a solid shoulder to lean on while the other unlocks the door. Once in, they fall on the bed, shirts half-hanging off their bodies, hands inside each other's pants. They gasp and fumble and arch into each other, the squeaking of bedsprings a rhythmic counterpoint to their thrusts. Afterwards, boneless and satisfied, Shawn moves to his own bed, a trail of stained clothes in his wake. Then they mumble goodnights, each other's sweat drying on their skin. Most nights, wrestling is near synonymous to foreplay and the actual coupling; what they do back at their rooms mere punctuation.

But there are some nights when the fatigue isn't enough to quell the adrenaline, when he's so hard that he feels like his blood had been replaced with fire. Those nights, he locks himself in the bathroom and lets the hot water run full-blast in the shower. One hand wrapped around his cock, the other pressed flat against the cool tiles behind him, he imagines. He imagines a trail of bites dotting his chest, his back, the underside of his jaw. Imagines the shape of Hunter's fingers imprinted on his hips, casting a shadow on his tattoo and he comes, his sharp gasps muffled by the torrent of water echoing around him.

Those nights, his grip on the sheets is a little tighter, his groans of "Faster, faster" a little more desperate, the shudder that wracks Hunter's body almost shaking his heart.

The mornings after, though, are always constant. They get out of their respective beds, stretch and go about their morning routines. Packing their bags, calling for breakfast, napping a little while the other used the bathroom--it's a dance that's a part of their lives and muscle memory as the moves they do in the ring.

Once, a long time ago, when twin beds were few and far between, Hunter had kissed him, a soft brush of his lips on Shawn's throat. He could have sworn it didn't happen, except that his pulse fluttered like a butterfly's wings fighting for escape.

Hunter had rolled away, sheets rustling before his breath evened out into sleep, but Shawn stayed awake, eyes gleaming in the dim light that filtered in from the hallway. He had wanted to get up and put his fist through a wall (already relishing the splintering bones and bright splash of blood), but his body had protested, and he didn't move.

He still catches himself touching his neck at times, and when he does he panics, thinking that other people could see what he had done. He stares at the mirror for hours at end, frantically searching for the scarlet letters to appear. Delicate, damning script starting perhaps on his forehead, curving down his face, painted over his collarbone. He acts offended when Hunter stands behind him and makes jokes about his apparent vanity, but in truth, he's relieved. He no longer has to face his reflection.

In all the years they've been together, he's only had one rule:

No marks.

He doesn't need any more reminders of what could have been.


End file.
